


Infinity

by onenotseen



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6217909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onenotseen/pseuds/onenotseen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon is almost done with high school and able to get out of the hellish place. However, one English class and a teacher named Ryan Ross is the only thing stopping him from graduation. Unfortunately, he is not willing to cooperate because no one can make him like classic literature. Not even if they are tall and hopelessly attractive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

School always started the Monday after Labor Day. That’s just how it is, year after year. After a painful month of back-to-school advertisements in practically every corner of sight, the damn cycle starts again.  
And senior year would be no different than the three years prior: Brendon would still be the geeky boy with bright red glasses and fat cheeks. The kind of kid whose hair is just a bit too greasy, and whose arms are just a bit too scrawny. The kind of kid who gets his school supplies stolen or destroyed, and made fun of in the locker room. It isn’t as if he never tried to change his label.

In freshman year, he’d smoked pot in the bathroom with some guy named Jake who finally graduated last year. But, that ended badly. And not without extreme punishment from both his over-protective parents and the law enforcement folks.   
Sadly, he was practically alone in navigating the torturous, perilous halls of high school. The only thing looking up for Brendon was the fact that it is his last year there. On another note, apparently he needs to take an extra English class because he failed his Classic Literature class last year due to a lack of interest in what happened to some angst-y dude and his dead lover in Wuthering Heights. 

But who cares if a remedial English class fills the place of an extra gym class that he could be taking. The Lord knows he has had enough of people roughing him up during football week, or messing with the stuff in his locker. 

The only person Brendon could call an ally in the insanity of high school is Spencer Smith. Spencer was one of those friends that you acquire from a friendship between your parents. The kind who you have to keep close due to embarrassing photos that you’re both pictured in. However, that is not to say that Brendon and Spencer do not get along. They practically live at each other’s houses. It’s just that at school, Spencer is with the crowd who tend to wear makeup and tight jeans and listen to creepy music that people like Brendon’s parents think is tainted by the Devil’s influence. And Brendon…well, he is definitely not welcomed by that group. Not that he really wants to be. But, being the school loser isn’t very fun either. Because he’s not even the loser everyone knows about. He’s the kind that nobody even goes out of their way to torment. A complete nobody. And he doubts anything will happen this year to change that. 

 

Just as Brendon finished contemplating the merits of being a nobody versus being known as a loser while he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, the phone rings. It isn’t the house phone, but the little grey cell on the table that is buzzing and playing the theme to star wars. Without even looking, Brendon grabs it and jams the answer button, bringing the device up to his ear.

“Sup?” He inquires, popping the last letter on his lips.  
“Hey, it’s me,” Spencer starts. “I was just wondering if you were up yet.”

Brendon glances down to look at his threadbare t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. His face feels like someone poured cooking grease on it during the night, and his glasses are still resting on the nightstand next to his bed. 

“Define up.”  
“You haven’t showered, have you?” Spencer sounds slightly annoyed, but self-sure. “And you’re still in your pajamas.”  
“Yes,” Brendon sighs, “guilty.”  
“Dude, it’s our last day of freedom for another fifty-two weeks! Not to mention that it’s already noon. What about our plans?”  
Brendon snorts into the receiver.  
“Plans? You mean going to the mall to check out hot chicks that would never even talk to us, let alone go out with us?”  
“For your information, I never say never. And we go every year on the day before school starts.”  
“Well, we went just last week for your birthday. That’s as much as I can handle. Do you remember the incident in the shoe store? Well, do you? Hm?”  
There is stifled laughter on the other line.   
“It’s not funny, Spence!”  
“Sorry, but she seriously thought that you were going to be her new gay best friend.”  
“Stop. No. Don’t remind me. Besides, it was all cleared up. She knows now that I’m a straight, single male.”  
“You brought it up.”  
“And I end it now.”  
“Fine.”  
“Fine.”

Brendon slides off the end of his bed and jams his glasses onto his nose. The blur of the room comes into focus as he makes his way to the closet to grab some clean clothes. His guitar rests silently on its stand in the corner of his room. Which reminds him of something.

“Spence, you still there?”  
“Yeah….I thought you decided to hang up after all.”  
“Nah, I just decided I want to go with you to the mall. My guitar needs new strings and I forgot to buy some when I re-strung it last.”

Spencer sighs on the other end, and Brendon can just see him shaking his head.  
“I guess you needed the proper motivation.”  
“Haha, very funny, Smith. See you at your house at twelve-thirty. There is no way we’re going to the mall with my ride.”

The phone is quickly discarded onto the bed, waves of laughter still echoing off of the speaker. 

 

An hour at the mall later, Brendon was very bored and annoyed with Spencer. He had gotten his guitar strings, and was pretty much done with being at the mall. However, Spencer had just started. 

And it’s not like Spencer was a big shopper, or anything. He just liked to talk. And talk. And talk to strangers, especially. For example, when the pregnant lady in the shoe section was buying a bigger size to accommodate for swollen feet, Spencer decided that it was a good idea to ask her how far along she was. And that, of course, led to a whole discussion involving everything from baby development to Spencer’s own younger siblings. 

Brendon never wants to punch Spencer, but he came pretty close today. The only thing Spencer even bought was a stick of eyeliner from hot topic. When Brendon used to go the mall with his mom, she would frown heavily at such a purchase and steer them very clear away from hot topic. 

As it was starting to become late afternoon, Spencer finally decided that it was time to head back. Brendon’s house was on the way back from the mall, luckily, so Spencer dropped him off. This gave Brendon enough time to re-string his guitar before his mother made him come to dinner. He was the only family that he knew that still ate dinner at a table, together. Well, besides his cousins, aunts and uncles. 

That night, Spencer texts him about the first day back at school. It’s after nine P.M., which means that Brendon will be forced to turn his lights out very soon. Spencer always laughs at him for having a bedtime that is out of his control. Maybe Brendon wouldn’t be such a loser if his parents didn’t have such childish, dumb rules like a bedtime. 

Spencer is still a junior. No one, at first glance, would be able to tell that Spencer is a year younger than Brendon because he acts mature for his age. Unfortunately, that means that Brendon is all alone in his classes every year, save for a few slightly friendly people. 

However, Spencer texts Brendon to tell him that he is in the same English class that Brendon is re-taking. Brendon lost his schedule on the same day that he got it in the mail a week ago, so he didn’t know. Brendon has to text Spencer to find out the details about the class.

‘Don’t tell me it’s taught by that same bitch again, Mrs. Finnigan. I will fail.’  
‘No, surprisingly it isn’t,’ Spencer texts back. ‘It’s taught by some teacher with the last name Ross. That’s all it says on the schedule.’  
‘Fuck,’ Brendon texts back, in the mood for using curse words. ‘I wonder if she’s a total stiff as well.’  
‘Dunno. I doubt anyone was as uptight as Finnigan. I heard she gave detention to a kid for farting in class.’

Brendon has to take a minute or two to laugh his ass off. God. The things he could have witnessed instead of skipping class in the nurses office. But then again, Finnigan was worse. She looked like she ate a sour lemon while simultaneously walking a mile-long tight rope between skyscrapers. 

Hopefully this ‘Ross’ lady wouldn’t get all prude about some of the steamier scenes in the novel. Brendon texted this to Spencer, who replied with anger about giving away spoilers in the book. Whatever.

There was a tapping on Brendon’s bedroom door that startled him into dropping his phone. It landed with a thud on the floor.  
“Brendon, honey,” his mom’s cheery voice floated from outside. “It’s bedtime. Lights, out, okay?”  
“Kay, mom. G’night.”  
“Goodnight.”


	2. Chapter 2

Despite what they say, even if you go to bed earlier, when you wake up at six in the morning, you still feel like utter crap. Not to mention that Brendon couldn’t sleep for the last three hours before his alarm-clock went off because of nerves. He tried to tell himself that there was absolutely no reason to be nervous. It was just a bunch of idiots gathering at a building where teachers try desperately to shove knowledge into their skulls. 

But for some reason, the thought of walking down those halls and finding what classes he was stuck with put Brendon’s mind into a state of unrest. He thought about calling Spencer, but gave up. In the end, he got ready an hour early, and spent the extra time pacing around the living room, watching crappy television to fill the silence. The heat of the day was already creeping into the house and Brendon felt his skin breaking out into a light sweat.

Great. That means that all of the girls will be wearing shorts. Those tiny shorts that reveal the curving slope of their asses when they bend down to tie their shoes, or grab their bags. Brendon supposes that he will have to do a lot of imaging his grandmother naked to make it through the day. It gives him shudders as he makes his way out of the house after a kiss on the head from his mom and dumb wishes of ‘good luck’ and ‘have a nice day’. 

Sometimes Brendon wonders if his mom remembers how he’s legally an adult starting in April. No wonder he’s such a loser. Other kids are taken more seriously at their houses. Take Spencer, for example. His mom knows to leave him alone and to not pester him when he’s in his room, moping and playing loud music. Brendon’s mom, on the other hand, would have a family meeting about what his troubles at school are. Really. She actually did that once when he went to his room, in a huff, and played music with a slightly heavier guitar sound than usual.

And that’s another thing. Grades. Brendon’s mom is always trying to find a reason for Brendon’s grades being below what she considers a reasonable standard.   
At first, she claimed that his bad grades were due to a buildup of sins. That led to bi-weekly confessions to God that were monitored closely by his mother. She would never listen in on what he had to confess, but she did bug him about it to the point that he would sit quietly in his room for five minutes, pretending to talk to God, while actually on the phone with Spencer. 

Eventually that idea flew out of the chicken coop because apparently he was spending too much time with God, and not enough time after school with the teachers. Thankfully, Mrs. Finnigan was not his teacher that year. It’s bad enough that he made every teacher waste extra hours after class to attempt to teach him what he just couldn’t learn. 

The only class Brendon ever had any sort of success in was history. Why? Probably because he has an interest in it. Lectures were hell, of course, but Brendon would read about the information in the textbook, and spit his thoughts about it onto paper. But he still is no history genius. The best grade he ever got was in American History III and it was a B-. It made his mom cry when she saw it, and the next morning he had pancakes for breakfast. 

Spencer honked his horn when he saw Brendon leave the house and shut the door. Brendon tore across the front yard, like a deviant, and jumped into the passenger’s seat. Spencer puts the car into gear and starts off down the street. 

“Nice of you to pick me up this morning, Mr. Smith,” Brendon says, over-zealously.  
“My pleasure, m’lday,” Spencer replies, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. “A gentleman dost not leave a woman waiting.”  
“Certainly not, good Sir….hey, wait. Why am I the lady?” Brendon pouts.

Spencer gestures around the steering wheel and dashboard with his right hand. “I’m the one driving.”  
“You sexist pig,” Brendon mocks offense. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the gentleman.”  
“Whoa. That’s not what your mother said in bed last night.” The car roars through the intersection. Brendon crosses his arms over his grey V-neck and turns to his friend. 

“You did not just go there.”  
“I believe I did.”  
“Pull over this vehicle right now, Spencer Smith.”  
“Or what?”  
“Or…I’ll call rape.”  
Spencer pretends to gasp in surprise, but ends up choking on laughter. That breaks Brendon’s façade as well, and he lets his arms go back to resting at his side. 

“Christ almighty, Brendon,” Spencer says, pulling into the student parking lot like a professional driver. Let’s just say that the place is such a zoo on the first day back to school. Brendon’s younger friend turns to examine him. “You look like a sleep-deprived junky.”  
“I know. Hell, I know. I tried washing my face like, twelve times, but I still look like I’m trying to break some sort of no-sleeping record,” Brendon replies, glancing in the side-mirror at his reflection.

“Man, I thought you might look like this after the first day of school, not before,” Spencer frowns.  
“Well, I guess I just want to get this last year over with. My nerves are strung so high. I feel like I’ll loose it if someone makes a loud, sudden noise.”   
Brendon tugs on his bangs, sighs loudly and leans back into the overly-hot material of the seat. A firm hand falls onto his shoulder. It makes Brendon twitch a little. 

It’s just school. Nothing new. Nothing to be worried about. Brendon wonders if all kids get like this about school, or if he’s just a freak, like usual. Classes start in four minutes, according to the digital clock in Spencer’s dashboard.  
“Just take it easy, okay?” Spencer reassures in that same tone that Brendon is so familiar with from countless of times before. Other private times like this. 

Brendon nods, glasses slipping down his nose slightly, and opens the door to get out. Spencer does the same, and locks it with the key. Brendon swings his backpack over his shoulder, feeling the sharp corner of his damn binder hitting the soft flesh of his ribcage. 

“See you at lunch, then, Spence,” Brendon calls over the top of the car. But Spencer is already staking out where his other friends are and has his back to Brendon as he weaves through the crowd and disappears behind double-doors. Brendon is grateful that Spencer spends any time with him at all. 

All of the good seats are taken when Brendon gets to his homeroom class. He just barely isn’t late after the good fight that his locker put up for him. His armpits already feel like a swimming pool splashed on them, and the day hasn’t even started. 

A couple of girls snigger as he awkwardly climbs into the desk at the front of the room, located a foot away from the teacher’s desk. Ms. Boone. At least she is pleasant enough. Not a sight for sore eyes, either. But she is a goody-two-shoes kind of lady. Always so cheery, and innocent, and too nice. Like realizing that the cookies you used to love are way too sweet for you to eat anymore. Plus, she reminds Brendon of his sister and that is just a huge ‘no’ in his brain. 

Clicking heels enter the room, and the lull and dread of the first day back comes roaring in after.   
It’s not until two class periods later that Brendon is free to go eat crappy cafeteria food in a smelly room full of teenagers. At least Spencer lets him sit with his group. At first, Brendon got some makeup-shrouded glares, but then they stopped caring. He finds Spencer’s group easily after dodging a dropped carton of milk and sits down none-too-gracefully on the circle seat that is attached to the table. 

“Hey,” he says, breathlessly. He feels almost like his limbs are made of jelly. Rob, across the table, stares at him with one of his milky contacts. The other eye is fixed carefully on the joining of his and his girlfriend’s hands. 

“Hey,” Spencer says back. “How were your first classes? Mine are going to be murder this year. It must be nice to be a senior.”  
“Yeah,” Brendon replies sarcastically, “if you haven’t failed too many classes, that is. Homeroom was okay. I have Ms. Boone this year.”

Spencer whistles at her name, which causes Brendon to roll his eyes.  
“You are disgusting.”  
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t tap that,” Spencer shrugs.

“I would….if she didn’t remind me of my sister. Anyway, economics screwed with my head, and Algebra was no better. As for physics….murder me. I’m so going to fail this year.”  
“I’m so good at Algebra, dude,” Spencer says, sympathetically. “How about I help you out?”

“Maybe. If I have time after meeting with the teachers for hours after school every day,” Brendon bites his lip as he squishes some grey-ish peas on the tray before eating them for no apparent reason that he could muster in his mind. 

“I can at least help you in English class,” Spencer points out. “I’m very good at that subject, and we have the class together next. If you don’t have to be worrying about that class, the other ones may be easier to handle.”

“Yeah, except I failed the class last year. How do you think I could do better this time?”  
“Second time’s a charm?” Spencer tries, shrugging.

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘third time’s a charm’, Spency,” says Amanda, sitting to their left. She pops a giant pink bubble and it sticks to her bleached straw hair. Brendon holds in his laughter at the sight of her struggle. It most certainly wouldn’t be welcomed. 

Spencer shrugs and nabs Brendon’s apple.


	3. Chapter 3

A dark-haired boy shuffles his converse-covered feet around, kicking at a few dust bunnies and leaves that cling to the linoleum floor. He’s trying to stay out of the way of the waves of bodies pushing passed him to get to class—which by the way, he should be doing. But, no. Instead, he’s waiting by Spencer’s locker and has been waiting ever since lunch let out. 

Apparently talking about skinny jeans and Hollywood Undead with gaudily-dressed teenagers was a more important task to Spencer than going to class with is best friend. At least he has the shame to look guiltily at Brendon as he jogs over and starts rifling through his locker and bag. 

“Sorry, Bren,” he says, once he catches enough breath to say anything. “Rob brought me this CD I’ve been wanting ever since it came out a few weeks ago. Mom won’t let me have money to buy music anymore. She says I’m—”

“Spencer,” Brendon interjects, looking carefully at his watch. “Class starts a minute ago.”

“Shit!” Spencer slams the locker and zips up his bag. “Let’s go!”

They book it down the hall, which is now empty, save for the janitor. The old man can barely see through his inch-thick lenses to watch them fly passed. If Brendon wasn’t starting to sweat from nervousness about being late on the first day, he was now from the jogging. 

Spencer checks his schedule to confirm the room number, and signals with his eyes that they have indeed arrived and that the class is already inside, seated. All Brendon can think about is how his friend’s cheeks are slightly pink from exertion. It makes him wonder what the color of his own cheeks are. Damn weather is too hot this time of year. 

If that wasn’t bad enough, Spencer opens the door and slowly steps inside, looking around hesitantly in that way of misbelonging that you get when you know you’re about to stand out in a bad way. Brendon steps in behind him and closes the door, the sound of it causing the teacher to stop talking very abruptly. 

Brendon can feel the pang of embarrassment tingling up the back of his neck and lifting the hairs there as it goes. All eyes are on them, including the teacher’s and nobody is laughing. Brendon gulps and grabs Spencer’s bicep, steering him to an empty table on the side of the room. That’s when the teacher decides to say something about their tardiness. 

“I already told the class this, but you can call me Mr. Ross,” he says, voice low and lacking in any sort of cheeriness or sounds of sincerity. “If you ever decide to show up to English class late again, I will not let you in. And you will receive an extra assignment to fill in the gaps in your learning. Thank you, Spencer Smith and Brendon Urie.”

Brendon stands stiffly, head down and fingers twitching where he was about to pull out the chair to sit in. He’s had his fair share of humiliation in class. Just never on the first day. At least Spencer seemed rather unaffected by it, sitting cautiously in his blue chair and grimly pulling out his binder and notebook. Slumping in his chair, the boy wonders if this Mr. Ross will be worse than Finnigan. His brain cannot even seem to imagine it as possible, but yet the evidence was in his tone of voice. 

There’s a nudge to his left arm, where it lies like a deadweight on the table top. It’s Spencer, passing him a note that says, Sorry, bren :( . He quickly crumples up the note and gives a strained smile to his friend. 

Whatever Mr. Ross was instructing about must have been an assignment because the room got quiet and people were studiously bent over their notebooks, scribbling and looking up at the whiteboard.

Brendon attempts to glance up there to get a clue about what he’s supposed to be doing at the moment, but instead meets a pair of hazel eyes, gazing intently in his direction. He quickly averts his own eyes, feeling embarrassed for some reason. But maybe something in his expression gave away his utter lack of knowledge about what the assignment was because Mr. Ross’ shoes click on the tiles as he makes his way up the aisle of tables to where Brendon and Spencer sit. 

“You’re Brendon?” He asks, leaning down on Brendon’s right side where the end on the table is. The dark-haired kid startles and nods, noticing how the hand that Mr. Ross rests on the surface next to him is long and spindly, and definitely larger than what Brendon would expect for a man so skinny. There is a strange pause, in which Ross backs off from his lean and straightens his pink tie with a thumb and forefinger before he says something more.

“I need to talk to you after class. Don’t worry; it’s not about your tardiness or anything.”

And just like that, he’s striding back down the aisle and resuming his seat at the teacher’s desk, looking at papers and doing other teacher-ly things there. Pens and pencils scratch thoughtfully on paper all around the room and Brendon finally realizes that they are supposed to be answering questions that help the teacher get to know each individual student. The first question is easy enough. The rest, however, reminded Brendon of why he despises the dumb shit that they make you do in school.

**Name.**  
Brendon Boyd Urie.  
**Favorite reads and why?**  
None.  
**Least favorite reads and why?**  
Wuthering Heights. Everyone in the book is a self-absorbed asshole who speaks in a way that reminds me of cows vomiting up bouquets of flowers. Oh, and then, ghosts—really? Not that I read the end. I just looked up the cliff notes to decide if the final assignment was worth doing. For your information, it wasn’t.   
**Hobbies/Interests?**  
Music. I play guitar and bass. My mom taught me how to play her piano. Oh, and I’m a total nerd who likes shit like playing video games and the Lord of the Rings series. I do a mean Gollum impersonation.  
Other than that, I’m entirely lacking in useful or impressive skills. So don’t expect much.  
**What do you want to get out of this class?**  
A passing grade. I failed this class last year. 

Mr. Ross had a girl in the front row collect the papers a good ten minutes after Brendon finished answering his questions. Spencer was too busy acting like an engaged student the whole time and wouldn’t pass notes, so Brendon had to stare into space and be bored. He discovered that he didn’t really know anyone else in the class, seeing as they were all a year below him, and it also seemed that a few of them were glaring at him when he didn’t notice how bouncy his leg was getting. Boredom did nothing to help his fidgeting. 

Mr. Ross was totally bent over his paperwork, nose practically re-writing every letter that he carefully scrawled onto each document. Brendon wondered what kind of thing the teacher could be working on already at the start of the year. It had to be very complicated because Ross didn’t notice that the carefully combed curls that were cradled behind his ear were falling entirely in front of his face and obstructing his view of the classroom. See, normally this would be a perfect opportunity for Brendon to be passing notes with Spencer, but Spencer was being the worst best friend at the moment and was actually putting thought into the questions.

Once the girl—Robin, apparently—finally sat down in her seat after turning in the papers, Mr. Ross got up and took center stage. Standing there, in his grey suit and pink tie gave Brendon the impression that he was not much older than himself. In fact, he was probably not much older than some of the seniors who were still attending high school two years after their class graduated. He smiles timidly, and leans back on the whiteboard, hands resting behind him on the little metal ledge. 

“Classic Literature?” Ross waves a hand casually, questioning the class. “What the hey is that supposed to mean anyway?”

A kid with glasses, who decided that wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants up to his belly button was okay raised his hand confidently. Most of the class caught onto the fact that it was a rhetorical question. Mr. Ross didn’t even glance at him. Instead, he pushes off of the whiteboard and paces like a leopard in a cage to the other end of the board, opposite of where his desk is. Suddenly, he stops and turns on a heel, swooping down to lean over the desk of a snobby-looking girl wearing a white mini-skirt and heels. 

“Can you name a work of Classic Literature?” He asks her, calm and curious. 

She bites her glossy lip and looks around uncomfortably. 

“Moby Dick?” The words pop out of her mouth, surprising even herself. Unfortunately for Ross, the name of the novel causes snickers to ripple through the class. One guy even does a low whistle. 

“Do you read a lot of Melville, Shannon?” Ross asks, conversationally.

“N-no,” she blushes. “Actually, it was my dad’s favorite book. He used to read it to me when I was little.”

“Ah.” Ross smiles at her before traveling back to the other side of the classroom. And just like that, class had officially started. 

Brendon was bored. So very bored. He’d tried to engage in understanding the importance of Classic Literature to modern-day living, but he only slept like an hour the night before. Or morning before. Every three minutes he was cracking a yawn, and likewise cracking his jaw. Spencer even jabbed him in the thigh with his pencil when the yawning became too dramatic. All Brendon could think about was his bed back home, and the way his brain feels pumped with endorphins when he has his headphones on, blasting music into his eardrums. 

In fact, he doesn’t even notice when class ends and kids are packing up their bags. Some rush to catch the bus, while others stay after school for the early starting sports. Spencer said that he would drive Brendon home today because he wants to get home early in case the mailman delivered his new video game. 

“Come on, sleepyhead,” Spencer poked Brendon’s shoulder, annoyed. “I don’t want to be waiting around forever.”

“Huh?” Brendon’s red glasses were slightly askew, which caused him to regain brain power enough to straighten them out and remember something. “Wait, Spence. Mr. Ross said—”

“Oh, you have to talk to him? Fine, I’ll be waiting out in the hall. Text me if you sense it will take a long time,” Spencer sighs and ruffles the top of Brendon’s head as he walks in the direction of the classroom door. 

Brendon zips up his black backpack, the sound seeming a lot louder in the now mostly-empty room. Mr. Ross sits back at his desk, contemplating a few papers, but not nearly as focused on them as he was earlier. Brendon approaches him, cursing in his mind when he accidently kicks a chair and causes a loud screech to sound. 

“Hey,” Brendon says awkwardly, feet pigeon-toed. 

“Go ahead, take a seat,” Ross says, removing a pair of wire-framed glasses from his nose. Somehow the glasses did not suit him at all.

“Um….” Brendon perches on the edge of a chair, waiting.

“Don’t worry, Brendon,” Mr. Ross’ tone of voice changes. He almost sounds like he’s been waiting to catch up with an old friend. “I just have to talk to you about the class because you’re re-taking it. Mrs. Finnigan left me a few notes…”

Oh god. This is the end. There is absolutely nothing in the pieces of paper that Ross now holds in his spidery hands that will help Brendon in this situation. He gulps, subtly.

“She says a lot of things,” Ryan points out, indicating the pages of notes he has on his desk, “but the one thing she does not mention is why you didn’t read Wuthering Heights. It says clear as day that, ‘He clearly showed a lack of knowledge of the book’s content, suggesting no completion of—”

“I hated it,” Brendon interrupts, not really thinking about who he was talking to. Ross blinks at him. 

“Hated it?”

“Y-yeah.” Brendon literally twiddles his thumbs, not really caring for the topic of conversation.

“But, why?” Ross looks earnest.

“What, don’t tell me you like that kind of book, Ross. Seriously, it gave me a headache,” Brendon replies, trying to sound forgiving.

“Don’t call me ‘Ross’, Brendon,” the teacher says, anger seeping into his voice. “It’s like if you called me just ‘Ryan’ or if I just called you ‘Urie’. It’s Mr. Ross. I am your teacher.”

Brendon leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “Is this all you had to talk to me about, Ryan?”

Ross frowns, steepling his long fingers together and twitching, like he wanted to say something or do something. 

“Are you troubled?” Ryan suddenly asks, eyes shut and thinking.

“Troubled? Hah. Just ask my mom. She could list off almost a hundred ways that I have sinned,” Brendon jokes, hoping that he isn’t giving off the impression of being a total punk teenager. He’s just sick of people always trying to fix him up and mold him into being what they think he can be, or want him to be. But Brendon catches the way Mr. Ross’ lip quirks at the comment, before he gathers up the papers into a stack, tapping them lightly on the table, and standing up and dropping them five feet into a blue bin at his feet. 

“You’re throwing away her notes about me?” Brendon asks, shocked at what he just witnessed. 

“I don’t really like to judge people before I get to know them,” Ryan states, sounding like he’s simply talking about his life philosophies. “You can go. Home, or wherever.”

Brendon stands abruptly, knocking his knees on the desk. After taking a moment to wince, he’s heading straight for the door, when his name is called again.

“Yes?”

“If you need any help with the assignment in this class, I can help you at lunch, before school or after school. Just email me first, okay?”

“Email…?” Brendon trails off, hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t get the syllabus.”

Ryan walks to his desk, picks up a pen and scribbles on the back of a card of paper before walking back to Brendon and handing it to him. 

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow,” he promises, sounding exhausted. “I already put away my stuff.”

“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we have some plot coming into the story here. I'll try to keep it fun and light-hearted though. I can't garauntee I won't break your heart in a later chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Spencer was strolling slowly down the hallway, concentrating intensely on the screen of his cell phone while his thumb did the typing when Brendon came out of the classroom. The older of the two didn’t bother to yell at him to get his attention, as they were walking towards each other anyway.

“Hey, Spence, sorry,” Brendon starts, noticing how Spencer’s eyes dart quickly over the last text message before looking up at him.

“Oh, hey! How bad was it?” Spencer sounded cautious and sympathetically afraid for Brendon, which made a feeling of belonging swell in his chest. 

“Not bad, actually,” Brendon contemplates as they head for the exit. “He actually threw out Finnigan’s notes and said that he’d rather learn for himself how bad I am.”

“Did he really say that?” Spencer looks taken aback.

“In more or less words, but yeah. He’s not too bad, for a teacher. He didn’t give me a hard time when I said that I hated Wuthering Heights to his face. And I could swear he thought it was funny when I mentioned my mom blaming even my most mundane problems on sins.”

They walk for a bit longer in silence, a grin forming on Spencer’s face. Brendon tries to read the expression in his crystal blue eyes, but can’t tell what he’s smiling about. 

“Anything else happen in there that I should know about?” Spencer is teasing. For some reason the question makes Brendon’s cheeks feel hot and uncomfortable.

“No. Some of us don’t want to fuck everything that moves, Smith,” Brendon snarls.

“Cool it, buddy,” Spencer laughs gently, “I for one know that if you weren’t straighter than an arrow, you really would have troubles and they would stem from your religion.”

Brendon nods and sighs, pulling open the door to Spencer’s car as he does the same. Spencer backs out and leaves the school parking lot before Brendon can’t take it anymore.

“See,” the boy with red glasses says suddenly, “the thing is, I don’t even know if I completely agree with my religion.”

“Agree? Isn’t it about believing everything or not believing at all? Sorry, I don’t know a lot about it.”

Spencer always looks really cool driving with his sunglasses on, window rolled down and arm sticking out. It was cheaper for him to buy a car that didn’t have air conditioning. But hey, a car is a car. Unless it is a mini van. 

“Yeah….you’re pretty much right. See, I know that my religion would dictate that doubting the truth in their teaching is temptations from the devil. But, can’t I just wonder? Can’t things ever make sense?” Brendon sighs loudly, sinking into his seat as Spencer hums along to a pop song on the radio. 

“Life doesn’t make sense, buddy,” Spencer announces in a sing-song way. Why act so serious all the time? No wonder Brendon and Spencer stayed friends. Spencer always knows what to say. 

“Turn up the damn radio, Smith, and book it to your house,” Brendon shouts. “I’m so kicking your ass at Halo when we get there.”

“Not on my watch, Bren,” Spencer says, and nearly pops the clutch. 

~

Just when things are not sucking or feeling very great, Nevada decides to dump a bucket of air from hell on top of the suburb where Brendon Urie resides. If he thought he would get more sleep compared to yesterday, he was just kidding himself. It was so hot, he could only exist on the floor of the bathroom, basking in the feeling of cool tiles on skin. His mom and dad are so lucky to have their own fucking window air-conditioner in their damn bedroom. He wonders if this counts as neglect. 

In fact, Brendon feels really crappy in the middle of chemistry class and asks the teacher if he can go to the nurse’s office. He gives him this look, like ‘who are you and what am I supposed to say to you to get rid of you’ and just nods. He figures that asking for a hall pass would be like helping a quail give birth to a turkey, so he just grabs the dumb laminated paper tag that serves as a pass for the boy’s bathroom and leaves as quickly as possible. With the way his stomach’s feeling, he might have to make a detour there anyway. 

Brendon turns the corner, leaning slightly to the right, off-balance and unintentionally. This, unfortunately, caused him to run straight into the person who was going the reverse direction down the hallway. Falling to the floor and concentrating on containing the contents of his stomach, Brendon revels in the cool feeling of the tiles. God. He must be really affected by the heat or something—he’s even taking the Lord’s name in vain as he know his mother always yells at him for. Another heave of his stomach releases an unintelligible sound from his throat.

“Naughhsst.”

“Sorry,” says a soft voice from above. “Are you okay, Brendon?”

Looking up to find your English teacher hovering over you and attempting to assess your condition would usually be an opportunity for heart-wrenching conversations and student-teacher bonding—well, in the movies it would—in reality it is more of a prompt to dry heave bile onto the floor in front of said teacher’s shoes. The sweaty, rushing feeling in Brendon’s veins reduced slightly, though the heady feeling did not.

“Oh,” Ross commented, trying to not obviously recoil. “I’ll take that as a sign of not being okay.”

“Uhhghh,” was the only sound Brendon could make, frozen to the spot and utterly embarrassed. As if he didn’t have enough problems. As if it wasn’t hard enough being the school loser. If word got out about this, he would quickly ascend the social ladder to a slightly higher notch labeled, ‘The Barfing Guy’. A cold sweat broke out on his skin, but whether it was from his thoughts or his heatstroke he did not know. 

A pair of arms snuck under Brendon’s armpits from behind and hoisted him to his feet with all the grace and poise of an injured sea lion on land. 

“So heavy,” Ross bites out, attempting to support Brendon’s weight with the student’s arm over his shoulder. For some reason Brendon’s leg muscles decided that they were decommissioned. 

Brendon bristled at the comment.

“Well maybe if you were stronger, I wouldn’t feel so heavy,” the dark-haired boy replies, putting a lot of his remaining energy into the bite. 

Ross just snorts quietly as they lollop down the hallway towards the nurse’s office. 

“What happened, anyway? Do you have the flu?” The teacher asks, voice all fake and concerned.

“Nope,” Brendon replies, whimsically. “Just the good ol’ heat stroke and dehydration. Isn’t school just fun?”

“This can’t be a regular occurrence,” Ross insists. “You don’t see all the students hurling in front of their teachers.”

Ouch. That one stung.

“No, but if this student wasn’t so goddam tired, then this student would have been more able to resist the heat,” Brendon angrily lets words fly, not paying mind to who they hit. Luckily, they only rattle the nerves. Mr. Ross readjusts Brendon’s arm and continues at a faster pace.

“Isn’t it a sin to say a swear word?” He asks genuinely. Brendon glances at his face to see if he’s laughing, but he’s just staring at the floor tiles as they go past, mouth slack and brow relaxed.

“What are you, my mom?” Brendon says with a tired sigh. They are outside the door of the nurse’s office and Ross has to adjust the weight he’s supporting on his shoulder in order to knock on the door. The nurse’s voice floats out from inside and welcomes them in, but Ryan is uncurling Brendon’s arm and reaching for the door handle. He turns and faces the pale-faced boy. There’s a bit of something sad-looking in the downturn cast of his eyes.

“I hope you feel better soon, okay?”

Brendon nods as he realizes that his throat is completely parched right before he turns the handle and steps into the office, door closing behind his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I make the chapters longer? I have everything written! Just let me know what you guys like :)


	5. Chapter 5

Brendon easily navigates the cafeteria tables and thumps down onto the only spare seat left at Spencer’s table. Unfortunately, this causes his open milk carton to exude its contents onto his carrots. Spencer makes a face at the white-coated root vegetable as he turns to see that his childhood friend has finally made it to his lunch table. 

“So?” Spencer asks in a curious and inviting voice. “How was gym? Don’t tell me your teacher is McKinley, again. We both know how he hates your guts.”

Brendon is a bit startled by the question and fumbles around with the plastic wrap on his granola bar before giving up too soon and tossing it on the tray in a temporary defeat.

“Interestingly enough, Spin, I didn’t go to gym today.” Brendon’s reply is punctuated by a large exhale that flutters his bangs and fogs his glasses. 

“Oh? Skipping already?” Spencer makes a hesitant expression before continuing, “That’s usually not your style, man…”

“No, Spencer, no,” Brendon contradicts, waving a hand around. “I…actually…I was incapacitated.”

“Incapacitated?” Rob snorts from across the table. Apparently sucking the fish lips off of his girlfriend was secondary to interrupting the current conversation. “Did you get beat up again, Urie? Was there blood?”

Spencer’s obviously assuming that his friends are just light-heartedly joking like they do with Spencer. But the comment makes a shiver run up Brendon’s neck. Damn Rob. Damn his creepy contacts and slutty girlfriend. Damn his ability to say something subtly threatening and trick Brendon’s best friend into thinking he’s being funny.

“No,” Brendon states, as though the joke and creepiness was all lost on him, “I just got heatstroke. Went to the nurse.”

The dark-haired boy takes a large drag of milk as his friend replies.

“What?” You can practically see the hairs on Spencer’s head rising off the scalp. “Are you okay?”

“Of course. I’m here now, aren’t I? Besides, it got me out of a gym class with McKinley.”

Spencer gives Brendon the ‘look’, which usually resembles someone’s mother who knows that her child is lying to her. Brendon knows that look all too well. And it’s not going to work on him right now, especially with Rob sitting a few feet away.

“Brendon.”

“Hmmmmn?”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of it just because I let it go right now.”

“You jerk,” Brendon laughs, before taking a bite of his fried chicken.

“That’s Mr. Jerk to you, old man,” Spencer retorts, carefully picking some dirt out of his fingernail. “If I remember correctly, your last class is study hall?”

“Yep,” Brendon says, unenthusiastically. “With a different teacher each time. Apparently they have to coordinate it that way so that each teacher has to do equal babysitting of us.”

Spence rolls his eyes. “Oooh, sounds fun.”

“I know. And you have French?”

“Oui.”

Brendon laughs a bit and punches Spencer’s shoulder before standing up and grabbing his lunch tray.

“I’d better get going if I want to deposit all of this crap in my locker before study hall,” Brendon sighs. “Are you driving me home?”

Spencer bites his lip for a second, considering the question.

“Yeah…but can you give me twenty minutes after the bell?”

Brendon eyes his friend suspiciously, but the blue-eyed guy does not respond.

“Sure,” is all Brendon can say before making his way to the trashcan and out of the cafeteria. 

The library. Usually a place that Brendon would avoid, however when your best friend makes you wait for him after school, it is a good place to hide out. One corner, in particular, has a blue chair hidden behind a row of bookshelves. No one ever goes back there because it’s the encyclopedia section, which makes it the perfect place to sit and listen to your tape player with your headphones on. Then again, a student like Brendon has to be careful of one thing—

“Young man! Take your feet off the edge of the bookshelf at once!” The librarian glowered at Brendon and pointed her witch-like finger at his size nines. 

The lady doesn’t bother waiting for an answer; instead she just walks off, shaking her head and mumbling about teenagers.   
Brendon drifted in and out of naps as he waited five, then fifteen, then twenty five minutes for Spencer. On the twenty sixth minute, he was dozing off again, but a sound woke him up. It emanated from the next row of bookshelves, where two people were having an argument. They were visible from Brendon’s location through a small gap in the shelved books. 

“Come on! Don’t be shy!” A raucous female voice insisted. There were rustles of fabric. “I have a great body. Everyone says so. And you’re only a few years older than me, right?”

Brendon observed, unable to do anything else as he processed this information. It seemed like a young-looking teenage girl was backing someone into a corner…

“Please,” a male voice coolly responded, “I don’t have any intention of touching you, nor do I have any attraction to you. I don’t want to take this to the administrators, so please cease.”

The voice had a sound that tickled the nerves in the back of Brendon’s mind. A feeling that made the boy think that he must know the owner of the voice.

“You have such a great vocabulary.” The female was obviously not understanding the situation. There was a lot more shuffling all of a sudden and the two parties came into full view through the gap in the books. It was…

”Please just give in, Mr. Ross.”

The blood in Brendon’s veins froze. There was music leaking out of his headphones, which went unnoticed completely. No way. No way did Brendon really just hear and witness what he did. The voices battled on, but he was too rattled to concentrate on what they were saying. 

He chanced a glance through the books again, but the movement caused his tape player to fall to the ground. Suddenly, there was a face glancing through the small window and a pair of surprised hazel eyes met his. That was when his body caught up with his brain and Brendon was dashing out of the library, ignoring calls from the librarians at the front desk that no running in the library was to be tolerated. He didn’t even get nervous when he brushed by Audrey, a girl famous for being a model that he always sort of had a crush on.


	6. Chapter 6

“It’s your turn to set the table, little bro.” 

Brendon’s older sister made a point to tell him this before making her way up the stairs to talk on the phone with her friend. It’s not like he had the energy to   
complain, anyway. His mom was singing loudly to herself in the kitchen when he arrived.

“The hills are aliveeeee with the sound of muuuuusiiii—“

“Mom?” 

“What is it, honey?” She continues the song in a hum. 

“What was the most interesting thing that happened to you in your senior year of high school?” Brendon asked, sitting down on the counter and watching her chop onions on the cutting board. His nose twitched slightly but he wiped it with his hand. 

“Most interesting thing….” She smiled. “Well that was the year I met your dad, of course. My mom didn’t approve because he was so much older than me, but I   
knew that he was going to be in my life one way or another.”

“Oh,” Brendon said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But why did she care how old he was?”

“Brendon, sweetie, I was seventeen and he was twenty-three. The only reason she softened up to the idea was because he went through proper courtship.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the rest of the story,” Brendon dismissed, standing up from the stool to begin setting the table. 

“Brendon, why do you ask?” His mom pressed, ceasing her chopping and giving her concerned mom face. 

“Nothing, mom. Dinner smells great.”

She smiled, but something in the back of her mind was telling her that her son was acting suspicious. But Brendon had always been a troublesome one. 

~

School wasted no time in starting the seniors on projects in each and every subject. For chemistry, it was a lab and formal lab write up worth forty percent of their grade. In math, the usual impending exams. The rest of Brendon’s classes consisted of essays or speeches, and those were easy enough to bullshit. It sucks being a senior who has to play catch-up in order to graduate on time. 

Which is why Brendon was extraordinarily grumpy when it was time for English class, the last period of the day. 

He sat behind his desk, slouched low and hoodie covering his head, despite being told several times that day to take it off. He was not paying attention at all, and the soothing way in which Mr. Ross was reading the novel out loud was putting him to sleep. It was short lived because he soon called on student volunteers to continue where he left off. 

Spencer was wearing extra tight jeans today, and Brendon could hear him breathing in excess in his left ear in the near-silent classroom. Brendon started to imagine being somewhere else entirely, perhaps in his bed or in the cold, dark basement where he played video games with Spencer until early in the morning.

He felt a sharp kick on his ankle, and shot up in his chair with a small grunt, and was shocked to see every face in the class looking his way.

“What?” Brendon asked, hearing his voice crack. The class laughed and he felt his ears burn. 

“We are waiting for you to continue reading this chapter, Mr. Urie,” Mr. Ross states, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning farther onto his desk. 

“Oh! Yeah, um…” Brendon rustles the pages of the book he just grabbed from the table, feeling beads of sweat on his forehead forming. 

“Page seventeen, at ‘The only way to get rid of temptation is the yield to it’*,” Mr. Ross indicates, and Brendon ushers out a breath of relief before he   
starts to read the line. 

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire   
for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful—“

Brendon stopped reading, feeling his face flush as he remembered the other day at the library. Mr. Ross, cornered by the high school girl, who was practically begging him to give into temptation and touch her in a sinfully delicious fashion. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to continue with the next sentence, but he couldn’t look up from the page because he started to imagine Mr. Ross’ long fingers grabbing her wrists and pinning her against the shelf, his breath ghosting over her lips warmly and deliciously. She moans, barely able to contain herself and he can feel Ryan’s stubble against his chin as he finally presses his lips against his and pulls his body flush against his.

“That’s enough,” says the voice that belonged to the man in Brendon’s imagination. “Shane, please pick up where Brendon left off.”

Shane focuses in on the page and begins reading the last few words of the previous sentence. 

Brendon tries to slow his heartbeat and sees Spencer toss a small piece of paper on his desk, his baby blue eyes fixed concernedly on him.   
WTF, B? You ok, man?

He scribbles back quickly.

Fine. Just not feeling well. Go home without me today.

Spencer took the note and huffed out an annoyed breath, but Brendon refused to make eye contact with him for the rest of class. The bell went off as Mr. Ross shouted their assigned chapters of the novel for the weekend homework. Brendon was trying to hurry out of the classroom to avoid his best friend interrogating him, but he found his path out of the row of desks blocked by none other than Ryan Ross himself. He stood with his shoulders squared, and a storm brewing behind his normally calm eyes.

“Brendon, please stay and chat with me for a bit,” He said with a pinched brow and strode back to his desk. Brendon felt another sweat drop roll down his forehead. Even with the AC in the school it was still too hot to be comfortable. The teen set his bag on a nearby desk and sat in the next chair over. 

“Come closer,” Mr.Ross said, steepling his fingers at chest level. His plaid tie looked like one Brendon’s grandfather John used to wear, but somehow his teacher made it seem stylishly retro. Long fingers came up to the tie and adjusted it carefully as the boy scooted his chair next to the teacher’s desk. 

“So,” Mr. Ross stated casually, “you’re not in trouble, first of all.”

“Ok,” Brendon scoffed. He folded his arms across his chest, not sure where this was going.

“Is everything okay, Brendon?” Mr. Ross expelled, followed by a frown.’

“Um…yeah?” Brendon huffed. “I don’t understand why you’re asking me this. I would like to go home.”

“Not until I’m finished,” Ryan said, sounding like every teach Brendon has ever had this discussion with. “I noticed you’re having a hard time paying attention, and your reading skills are definitely below the level I would expect of a junior, let alone an 18-year-old—“

“Seventeen,” Brendon interjected.

“Seventeen-year-old,” Mr. Ross repeated slowly.

“Yeah, ok? I have ADHD and I can’t focus, what’s your point?”

Hot flames rose in Brendon’s stomach, and he was now leaning forward in his chair, fists slightly clenched at his side. 

“My point,” Mr. Ross intoned, “is that I’m trying to figure out how you can be successful in English class. Do you take medicine for it?”

“Yeah,” Brendon muttered, relaxing a little bit back into his seat. “But that’s not the problem today….I just—Never mind.”

Mr. Ross turned his shoulders to face Brendon directly and dipped his head slightly, trying to make eye contact with Brendon. His bangs flopped into his eyes slightly and he reached out his hand, resting it on Brendon’s shoulder lightly. Brendon’s body stiffened. 

“Tell me what happened today, Brendon,” Mr. Ross requested. 

“No!” Brendon shouted, shrugging the man’s hand off his shoulder, eyes darting towards the door. “What the fuck am I doing here? Let me go home.”

“If you do, I’ll have to make a report to the counselor that you’re a student in distress,” Ryan says, a bit of a smirk forming afterwards. Brendon gawked at the suddenly teasing and bold statement.

“It’s not a big deal, Mr. Ross,” Brendon said. Except for imagining you seducing a high schooler in the library. 

“Then tell me,” Ross demanded. 

“I saw you with that girl in the library, and I know you know that I saw you,” Brendon lies.

Mr. Ross stands up suddenly from his desk, a pinched look on his face. He runs a hand through his flopping hair and leans over with one hand on his desk. 

“I thought I saw someone, but I didn’t think…” He mutters to himself. 

Feet moving on their own, Brendon feels himself exhale and stand by his teacher’s side, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. Ross looks up, surprise in his bright hazel eyes that quickly fades to a sideways glance to the window.

“If you’re worried, don’t be,” Brendon says, removing his hand. “I know she was coming on to you anyway. Besides, I don’t really think you’d go for um…someone like that.”

“Thanks, but—“ Ryan’s face scrunches up, “—wait what do you mean someone like that?”

The teen shrugs, feeling a strange heat creeping up his cheeks. He shrugs, to which his teacher gives a small smirk. Brendon’s inside twists. 

“You won’t speak of this to anyone,” Mr. Ross suddenly demands. “I didn’t do anything wrong, but I wouldn’t want this mishap to threaten my career.”

“What, your career taking care of angsty, ungrateful brats?” Brendon snorts.

“Excuse me,” Ryan articulates, “but I am teaching teens how to appreciate literature.”

“Bullshit,” Brendon spits. His teacher glares at him, to which Brendon locks his deep brown eyes, unwavering. Eventually, the tension breaks in the room and Mr. Ross sighs and starts shuffling papers around and filing them into his briefcase on the desk. 

“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Urie,” he robots. “And don’t forget to read the chapters.”

**Author's Note:**

> Update: I'm stuck transitioning to the next plot point. I might get some time to work through it over the holidays


End file.
